


Fearless

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after; Archie angsts and Horatio is speechless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearless

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Grounded](http://archiveofourown.org/works/310653)

I

It’s been a long time since he had last visited his family’s house in town. After months and years at sea, the rooms seemed more richly furnished than ever, the galleries more labyrinthine and the staircases more endless. He had spent the night in his old bedroom and now descended the stairs, heading for the breakfast parlour, walking past portraits of long-dead ancestors who sneered and glowered down at his tanned skin and his naval uniform. It had always been the Kennedys’ family tradition to be dark, grim and Scottish; a fair, vivacious offspring who stood in the service of the English Crown was an aberration, a quirk of nature, and the portraits told him that it was so. The walls here were canary yellow and illuminated by dozens of sconses whose light painted dancing patterns upon the faces in the pictures. Grey tendrils of shadow smeared upwards from the frames, slithering along the wall into the furthest corners of the stairwell, gathering under the ceiling. Archie looked up at the stuccos; in the flickering light they were shifting shape even as he watched.

Mother joins him halfway down the stairs, as does Maria. Mother looks ill, for the first time she does look ill. There’s no longer denying it. He wants to remark on it, but one quelling look from Maria and the words dry up in his mouth. He looks back to Mother, who isn’t there anymore, and when he voices his surprise, Maria doesn’t know what he’s talking about. They are walking down the stairs, step by step, and they shouldn’t, because they are no longer walking on a lush carpet but on wooden planks that shake and tremble with every step, leading into the green murky waters that smell of seaweed and decay.

This is dead water, Archie knows, that has nothing in common with the cerulean blue that smells of liberty and of life. He mustn’t step in there, but the stairs carry him down into the brackish bog where the ceiling hangs low over his head. As it sloshes over his shoes, the water is cold like the grip of death itself.

And there it is, the thing he has been dreading, emerging from the deep like the Leviathan: the hand with superhuman strength and the all too familiar pirate’s skull inked into the skin. It creeps higher and higher, any moment now it will grab his leg and pull him into the deep where water muffles every cry and where he will remain trapped for eternity.

And then, a flash of black, and a boot descends upon the hand, maiming flesh and crushing bone under its heel. Archie’s gaze shoots up, travelling up the length of leg, long and skinny, until it reaches Horatio’s face, with its dark eyes and determined mouth, and when he looks back down, the heel crushing the hand is his, Archie’s, own. He gasps, and with that gasp shudders awake.

He might as well have come up from underwater and surfaced back into the light. Morning had long broken; two bells must have long been struck on the Indefatigable. Even though their room went out to the yard, a port town’s morning song reached his ears easily, a disharmonious composition of clattering hooves, shouting carters, shrieking fishwives, shouted orders, running feet, screeching seagulls. Sunlight poured in through the window, undoing the spell that moonlight had cast upon it last night. Archie no longer found himself in an otherworldly chamber; now, every item of furniture displayed its many deficiencies, the walls were creaked and bare, the windowpanes spotted and blind, the ceiling hung with grey cobwebs, and the worm-eaten floorboards more worn and rotten than those found on a well cared-for ship like the Indefatigable.

Horatio rested heavily against his shoulder. He was sleeping soundly, his breath deep and even, and one of his long legs was thrown over Archie’s thigh, pressing into his groin. Wrapped into the blanket, Horatio was very warm, and where he lay against Archie, Archie’s skin was covered in sweat. In contrast to this, his other side, exposed to the cool morning air, was cold, and the clashing of these contradictory sensations made him shiver. He didn’t dare move to tug at the blanket and cover himself up, but he would have to to hide-.

Archie looked down his own body and swore under his breath. He was hard, of course; his cock, insistent as ever, curved upwards against his belly, mocking him. Archie averted his eyes and covered his cock with his hand. Its familiar weight and warmth were comforting, but not much. He could not grant himself release, not like that, not with Horatio asleep by his side, not _again_. It was a sin he had long reconciled himself to: surely, on the day of reckoning, when he would have to render an account of his life to the Almighty, the sins committed on board the Justinian, the impure thoughts about his shipmate and the even more impure deeds he had indulged in with that shipmate would carry more weight than the fleeting moments of pleasure by his own hand. But that didn’t mean that Horatio should once again be subjected to the indignity of having to witness the weakness of Archie’s flesh.

It was enough that Horatio had been induced to come to him as a lover last night. The reeling in Archie’s stomach intensified and his chest constricted, making it ever harder to breathe. Simpson had been right; he was impure of body and spirit, and so he became the downfall of a good man. Not for one moment did Archie try to fool himself by reasoning that Horatio had come to him of his own free will. Horatio was not a degenerate, he had not known what he was doing. Archie had. He had led his friend down the path to damnation just to satisfy his own depraved lust. He was no better than Jack Simpson, and he rubbed the back of his hand convulsively, as though to wipe off the dreaded pirate skull that seeped out from underneath his skin to brand him as a marked man.

His cock remained unperturbed even as Archie descended the spiral of guilt; lust always seemed to lurk inside his belly, coiled like a snake and ready to strike at any moment. He lusted for Horatio’s touch, for the feel of skin on skin, however wrong and depraved that desire was. Jack had recognised that in him; he had seen the lust and had succeeded in eliciting its poison time and again, making Archie spill even through panic and revulsion. And now, he took up where Jack had left off, seducing a good man, an honourable man into unspeakable deeds.

Archie’s hand brushed against his own cock – he could not tell whether by accident or by design. As guilt spiralled, so did arousal. Horatio stirred against him, the longed-for slide of skin on skin, and Archie held his breath, his heart beating madly, lest Horatio should waken.

Horatio did not waken. He merely turned his head and muttered something into Archie’s hair, and he slept, loose-limbed and beautiful. His head rested on the pillow beside Archie’s, and the fact that they shared a pillow felt almost more intimate than the fact that their naked bodies touched from shoulder to foot. Archie could see the curve of Horatio’s brow and mouth, soft and relaxed in his sleep, and lust spiked yet again as memories of kissing that mouth flooded over him. Horatio did not deserve _that_ , did not deserve being lusted after like a common whore.

Horatio had kissed him first. He had been unhappy and intoxicated, and Archie had used his troubled state of mind against him. And again, his cock twitched as more memories of last night resurfaced, filling him with dread and desire alike. “Can we do this again?” Horatio had asked, and he had meant it, Archie never doubted that, but he had not been in his right mind. He had been, by his own admission, under the spell of the moon. Today, it would all be lost, Horatio would have come to his senses, and he would despise Archie for what he had done.

There was nothing he could do about it, the moment would come that Horatio would waken, and he, too, would remember last night and the crazed lust that had driven them into each other’s arms. All Archie could do was lie still and pray that, when that moment came, it would be over quickly. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut at the thought of those expressive dark eyes glaring at him with loathing and disgust.

Horatio stirred again, and he rolled onto his side, pressing flush against Archie as he threw one arm across Archie’s chest. He wasn’t fast asleep any longer, Archie could tell, but he wasn’t quite awake yet, either. Suspended in the dreamy state between two worlds, his body instinctively searched for the warmth and comfort provided by the body of another. He, too, was hard. Archie froze as Horatio’s cock dragged over his thigh. It was good, better than he had ever imagined it could be. But he was quite immobilised, both by Horatio’s weight and by his own guilt, and he merely rolled his hips _just so_ and was rewarded by a twitch of Horatio’s cock against his skin. To feel that again was worth eternal damnation. Archie took a deep breath and shifted again, lightly, pressing his body against Horatio and into Horatio.

An incomprehensible, humming murmur, and Horatio was waking, sliding from sleep into consciousness, and he wasn’t pulling back. The arm across Archie’s chest tightened, and as Horatio’s leg slipped further between Archie’s, the hairs on his leg grazed over Archie’s skin, sending a tremor from the nape of his neck down to his loins.

II

Guilt and shame momentarily battled with relief and gratitude; the latter won, and the sensation was so powerful it sent his head a-swirl. How volatile the body was, one moment cold from the chill of morning air and the lingering shiver of guilt, the next hot and all but writhing wantonly. Horatio’s breath had quickened, hot and moist against his neck, and Archie could tell, from the sudden tension in his friend’s body, that Horatio was fully awake now and just as unsure how to proceed as he was. Had they not slept in each other’s arms, they could have disentangled themselves from the sheets in the morning, quite at liberty to either acknowledge what had happened between them or to throw the curtain of silence over it forever. Archie felt laughter build up in his chest despite himself. It seemed Mr Hornblower had found himself at quite a disadvantage, wrapped around his shipmate like that. Archie tilted his head to look down at him, past the dark head cradled to his chest, the sharp ridges of his spine, the graceful curve that led from the small of his back to the swell of his arse, and he bit his lip, overpowered by a sudden wave of tenderness. Horatio might be a natural born sailor and a gifted leader, but here, tangled in these frayed sheets, he was as helpless and in need of guidance and protection as a newborn kitten. Archie’s spirits rose.

“Good morning,” he offered. His breath stirred Horatio’s hair and Horatio shifted in his embrace, but he didn’t lift his head. “Sleep well?” he kept his voice as light as possible. To pretend waking up together like that was perfectly normal was preposterous, of course, and he waited with bated breath for Horatio’s reaction.

“Archie...” Horatio’s voice was thick and rough with sleep. Desire, too, perhaps? Archie’s arm tightened around him. Horatio still wouldn’t look at him, and it was crucial to know whether it was embarrassment or regret that made him hide his face. His fingers stroked lightly over Horatio’s spine and he felt a tremor spreading thence and run through Horatio’s entire body. “Archie!” Horatio repeated, and this time, the moan in his voice was unmistakable.

Archie’s body reacted even before Horatio could take in another breath. He bucked and rolled them both over, and he was covering Horatio’s face, throat and neck with open-mouthed, immodest kisses that set them both aflame. He slid lower, brushing his mouth over the tender inside of Horatio’s arm and pressed a hot kiss into his open palm. Horatio threw his head back, the picture of abandon.

There was something else, something more, a gift that he could bestow on Horatio. Horatio’s skin was like velvet under his lips and tongue and he swallowed each tremor that rippled over Horatio’s stomach and treasured every quiver of the long, sleek muscles under his hands. In the yellow light of the morning, he could see the fine hairs on his stomach, the scar on his shoulder and one just above his hip bone, and the cluster of birthmarks on his thigh. And then there it was, the ultimate challenge. Archie paused, swallowing hard, his head spinning. But this wasn’t the time for fear and shame. He took a deep breath and licked the length of Horatio’s cock.

Horatio gasped and then groaned, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world, and, emboldened, Archie took Horatio’s cock in his hand and licked again, consumed by the desire to hear Horatio make this sound again. He had not known before, but he knew now, that it was possible to fall in love with a man just because he made beautiful sounds when aroused. He laced the fingers of his other hand through Horatio’s that was groping blindly, tangling in the sheets. He could feel Horatio’s pulse, he felt it in his mouth and saw its frantic beat in Horatio’s groin, and he pulled back to take in the sight of the man spread out before him.

“Please,” Horatio said in a voice that shot straight to Archie’s heart and cock. “Archie, please. This.” He shuddered and gasped again, and breathed: “Don’t stop.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Archie said, and it was the truth. He was still scared and he wasn’t sure whether he really liked the taste, but he couldn’t stop himself, and he leaned back in and didn’t lift his head again until the hard, frenzied thrusts of Horatio’s hips told him his crisis was nigh. Archie did not care for the bitter-salty flood to hit his mouth, and so he wrapped his fingers around Horatio’s cock and watched him spend all over Archie’s hand and his own belly.

Horatio was breathing hard, his eyes closed and his mouth open, and Archie traced the puddles on his stomach with the tip of his index finger. He then raised his hand to his mouth and licked them off, frowning. It wasn’t all unpleasant. In fact, there was something oddly addictive about the taste. It was definitely less unpleasant than sea water or blood, and Archie had swallowed his fair share of both.

He stretched out by Horatio’s side, ignoring the way the pointy hip bone dug into his belly. His hand was ghosting over Horatio’s skin, and he couldn’t stop that, either. He had, Archie realised with a shudder, lost control over his own body, but for once, it didn’t make him panic. Horatio’s arms encircled him, pulling him closer, and Archie hovered in a state of complete bliss for several heartbeats, his face burrowed in the crook of Horatio’s neck and his hips rolling against the hotwetslick body beneath him, and then Horatio grabbed his arse, fingers digging in hard, and, just like that, Archie’s body was flung into the waves of release.

He remained in the circle of Horatio’s arms for a long while, safe and content and limp-limbed. Horatio really needed a shave, he thought lazily, but at the same time, Horatio was breathing feather-light kisses upon his shoulder. Archie sighed, his muscles and bones liquefying under the gentle caresses. He was so close to Horatio, he didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Perhaps they had melted into each other and would be as one from this day on. It wouldn’t be so bad, Archie mused; there was something to be said about being Horatio Hornblower.

III

Their room had a strange property: it was much colder inside than it was outside. The water in the jug by the wash-basin was freezing cold. Archie poured some into the basin and washed his face and hands. Then, he dipped the corner of the towel into the water and dragged it across his abdomen, wiping off the traces of his release. Behind him, he heard Horatio search feverishly through their scattered garments, swearing under his breath. A second of hesitation, and Archie turned around and handed the towel to Horatio who took it automatically with a muttered thanks. He grimaced as the cold fabric hit his skin, and Archie grinned. He couldn’t take his eyes off Horatio. It didn’t seem possible that this man was the same bedraggled boy who had dragged himself onto the board of the Justinian like a drowning rat. Horatio was thin and lanky, but the years at sea had tautened his body, and muscles had filled out the planes and hollows where there had only been skin and bones before. Archie’s gaze travelled up and down his body, but in the end, it was irresistibly drawn to Horatio’s groin which his friend still tormented with the cold towel. The heavy swirl of desire unfurled in the pit of his stomach again, and he rolled his eyes at his own weakness and turned away, lest he should be tempted to walk over to Horatio and take him into his arms again.

Instead, he unrolled his housewife, took out his razor and lathered up his face. As he shaved and washed and listened to Horatio getting dressed, a deep sense of peace descended over him. And he knew that this feeling, however short-lived it was, would remain fixed in his memory forever. This was the one moment when the shattered pieces of his life had fallen into place and everything was as it should be.

Horatio handed him the towel, and Archie rinsed and dried his face, then walked over to the window and threw the water from the basin into the yard. He refilled it with fresh water from the jug and stepped aside to let Horatio have his turn.

Horatio Hornblower, clean-shaven, attired in his pressed lieutenant’s uniform, presented a splendid sight. No, more than that: he was, quite simply, beautiful. Archie caught himself staring again, taking in the dark eyes and the stern mouth and remembering what they looked like in the throes of passion. Horatio was made for the uniform, with his tall stature and the proudly set features. He noticed Archie staring, and it was amazing and perversely satisfying to see him get into a fluster. Archie couldn’t help smiling. “Why, Mr Hornblower,” he said, stalking towards him, “what does a respectable officer of his Majesty’s Navy do in an establishment like this, with a,” he leaned in, his throat dry and his heart beating madly, and, egged on by his own perverse brand of courage, whispered into Horatio’s ear: “notorious catamite?”

“Archie!” Horatio said in that half-tender, half-exasperated tone of his. “Please don’t talk like that.” He didn’t sound angry.

Archie took half a step back and looked Horatio straight in the eyes. “I am, though, Horatio,” he said. “I... won’t pretend, not now, not after last night.”

Horatio looked from top to toe the respectable lieutenant when he reached out a hand and brushed Archie’s cheek with his fingertips. He didn’t say anything, he just shook his head – whether to silence, to gainsay or to reassure him, Archie did not know. Horatio’s touch, however, _was_ reassuring, as was the expression in his dark eyes, and Archie wrapped his arms around Horatio’s waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. Horatio breathed in shakily and pulled him closer. They would, in a few minutes, step through the door and into a world in which they had to live the part they looked. Their future was uncertain, both as officers and as men, but Archie knew, deep down in his bones, that Horatio would not break the promise he has made him, that his body was making to him even now. And he vowed to himself to cling to this promise and to remember it, always, even in his darkest hour.


End file.
